


Lust, Imagined

by Ronique



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Doctor Homer Jackson, Doctor/Patient, Edmund Reid whump, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Medical, Punching, Reid Whump, Sexual Inexperience, Sexual Repression, Sick Edmund Reid, Sickfic, Submissive Edmund Reid, Unconsciousness, homer jackson - Freeform, jackmund, submissive Reid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 14:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronique/pseuds/Ronique
Summary: Edmund Reid's imagination is ignited by sensual magazines and he is unnerved when Homer Jackson makes an appearance in his fantasies. He feels terrible the following day, but must work with a sassy Jackson and a stoic Drake to solve the case of a kidnapped child. The case leads them to new areas of London and the savage criminals who inhabit them. Inspector Reid must also deal with his declining health and a growing affection for Homer Jackson.**Now Working on Chapter 5**Descriptions per chapter. Takes place after the death of Emily. Mathilda has yet to be found.





	1. Late Night Lust

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Otava for providing the prompt for this work. If only we could remember what that prompt was.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Inspector Edmund Reid finds his imagination runs a little wild with a set of magazines. He experiments, but then represses his affections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to Otava for proof reading!
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

It wasn't until Detective Investigator Edmund Reid felt his tired eyes burn that he looked up from his stack of case files, peered over the top of his spectacles, and found his office window dim with the shadows of night. His brow furrowed. Had he been so engrossed with work that another evening had gone by unnoticed?

Edmund eased back against his chair and pulled out his pocket watch. It was half past ten. The station's day shift would be home in their beds and the night shift would have arrived hours ago. He slipped off his spectacles, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

Were Emily still alive, he knew, she would have yet another reason to be displeased with him. As it was, there was nothing but an empty house waiting for him when he returned home, and it was partly this reason he did not despise staying at work late. At least here there were people moving about. People whose voices and presence made the place feel alive a great deal more than the dusty furnishings and cold dark rooms of home, which only served to remind him of his wife and daughter.

But his body ached and he was tired. He tucked his glasses away into his jacket, closed up the file he had been pouring over, and was about to switch the lamp off when a short stack of magazines caught his eye.

Earlier that day, when daylight had barely settled over Whitechapel, a raid team had searched the premises of a local brothel hoping to catch a known smuggler, figuratively, with his pants down. The smuggler had not been located, but the team had returned with a plethora of items they deemed worthy of the inspector's study. The magazines were amongst those items. When Edmund asked about them, he had been told they were seized as evidence of illegal “literary pornography”.

As Whitechapel was home to dozens of brothels, illicit sexual paraphernalia and acts were part and parcel, but “literary pornography,” as the officers had put it, was something new to an area whose population did not value education. They were mostly shift workers who spent their days bent in physical labor or at repetitive, menial tasks, none of which required literary prowess. Therefore, what was the purpose, the goal, of distributing such a product if many would-be consumers would not, or could not, read it? The scheme peaked Edmund's interest. He wondered if there was something more to this endeavor.

Determined to investigate further, he scooped up several issues of the thin magazine to bring home with him. If nothing else, perhaps reading the gibberish would help him relax. Falling asleep and staying asleep in that wretched house had become something of a chore, despite the long hours he was putting in at work. He welcomed a distraction.

Detective Inspector Reid closed up his office, left the station, and headed home.  
The house was chilly, still, and, except for the occasional creak or groan, silent. Edmund paused in the entrance hall, as if waiting for someone to greet him, but the only welcoming embraces and smiling faces were in his memories. 

He hung up his coat and dropped the magazines off in the living room on the small table next to his chair. Kneeling in front of the fireplace, he opened the flue and carefully stacked the kindling and wood. He lit it, encouraged it, then took his leave upstairs to change into his night clothes while the fire warmed the room.

His stomach growled as he descended the stairs in his slippers and he realized he'd forgotten to eat dinner. Food would have to wait, though, as there was none in the house. Instead, Edmund paused by the liquor cabinet on his way to the chair and plucked out one glass and a moderately aged bottle of Irish whiskey. Then he settled in his chair, feet toward the fireplace, and poured himself a two-finger glass while the warmth of the fire rolled over him.

His sipped the whiskey and waited to see if he might doze off now that he was warm and his stomach had something to digest, but it wasn't to be. He slipped on his spectacles and picked up one of the magazines.

Except for an acronym across the top and the magazine's title in smaller print below, the front cover was blank.

“E-T-for-A-S,” he read aloud with an amused bounce of his eyebrows, “Explicit Tales for All Sorts.”

He flipped the magazine over and found the back was blank as well. Sipping from his glass, he flipped open the magazine and found no publishing or copyright information listed. The title page simply relisted the magazine's acronym and title with the number thirty-four below. When Edmund flipped open the cover to another issue and found the number thirty-three, and a third with the number thirty-two, he decided the designations probably indicated different issues.

Going back to issue number thirty-four, the inspector flipped past the title page and was immediately confronted with the first tale. No author was listed and he assumed it was a form of protection. Should the magazine fall into the wrong hands, the police for instance, you would not want to name your fellow conspirators. Even a pseudonym could be traced. Edmund finished off his glass of whiskey and began to read.

The story started off plain enough with two fellows having a stroll. Then dinner, accompanied by polite conversation, before they settled in to relax by a living room fireplace. Edmund was about to give up and flip to the next page when, quite suddenly, the pair began to kiss.

They kissed lovingly and caressed each other. Then they were laying on a couch, rubbing their crotches against each other while reiterating their desire for one another.

Edmund cleared his throat. He shifted in the chair. Probably due to the whiskey and the fire, the room seemed warmer than it had earlier. He loosened his robe and welcomed the rush of cooler air. 

Now one of the pair, William, the more dominant of the two, was helping to divest the other of his garments. He whispered suggestively while he unbuttoned his partner's pants, then reached inside and stroked the flesh of his lover's cock. Charles, his lover, moaned.

Edmund sucked in a breath and glanced around the room as if someone might catch him reading such lewd work, but there were only shadows, jumping from the fire's light, to greet him. He poured himself another two-fingers of whiskey.

William stroked Charles for a while, varying his movements and stopping anytime Charles seemed close to orgasm. Charles whined. His hips thrust up uncontrollably at times, until William wickedly held him down to tease him.

Edmund downed half the glass he had poured. His heart was beating faster and he was suddenly uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair and, to his shock, discovered the movement sent a wave of pleasure through him. Pulling the magazine aside, his gaze landed on the crotch of his pajamas and the growing bulge beneath the thinner fabric.

“Oh…”

He spread his thighs to relieve some of the pressure on his cock and took a deep breath. Was this story turning him on? He had noticed his attraction to some men, just as he had some women, but was that not natural? Was that, the ability to recognize the attractiveness of another, not nature's way of helping to establish one's status and class in the rituals of reproduction? After all, he had married and produced a child with a women. But his rationalizing did nothing to convince his cock it should not be hardening.

Over the fabric of his pajama pants he grazed a single finger down the length of his cock.

“Mmm,” he hummed low and closed his eyes.

He scooted down in the chair and spread his thighs wider, then caressed the now solid length with a few fingers. He abandoned rationalization to focus on the sensations and his innate curiosity fed his imagination. 

What if he were Charles? He looked to the magazine and read back several paragraphs. He found the lines of dialogue William spoke as he unbuttoned Charles' pants. He read them aloud.

“You want this, don't you?” he whispered into the darkness. “You want me to stroke your cock.” Edmund's cock twitched under his fingers and a quiet moan escaped him.

“Yes.”

He startled himself with the sound and nearly dropped the magazine. This was wrong. What if someone caught him? The very man responsible for arresting those propagating such filth now writhing under its sensual influence. Again, he looked around the room. Again, he was still alone.

What if it was not wholly the magazine? He had been ages since he had pleasure by his own hand or any other. Surely, it was conceivable a man might be allowed to relieve himself after so long, if no one else was available? Had he not a right to even a small amount of pleasure?

He brought up the magazine again and skipped ahead a few lines. William was slipping his hand inside Charles’ pants.

In his living room, Edmund Reid lifted his right hand and slipped it beneath his pajama top. He flattened his hand on his stomach. Then, ever so slowly, he dipped his hand under the waistband of his pajama pants. His breath quickened when he felt the coarser hair beneath his fingertips. As his hand slid lower he closed his eyes, concentrated on the sensations, and repeated the lines he had uttered before.

“You want this, don't you? You want me to stroke your cock.” Edmund’s cock twitched again and he gasped. He opened his eyes and feverishly read over the next few paragraphs.

William gripped Charles' cock at the base and curled his fingers around his shaft. Edmund did the same, feeling the thickness of himself in the heat of his own hand. When William began to stroke Charles, Edmund began to stroke himself. Then the inspector closed his eyes and spoke William’s next lines aloud.

“Look at how hard your cock is for me. Do you like it when I pull you out, pump you?” 

Edmund moaned. His hips jerked upward, thrusting himself into his own hand. He nearly dropped the magazine.

“Yes,” he answered himself. “Faster.”

As if it were someone else's hand in his pants, he heeded the request and increased his pace. Then he ran his palm over the head of his cock. He squeezed himself, feeling his own juice leak out, and moaned as he smeared it down his shaft. The magazine dropped to the floor.

His hips rocked against the chair's cushion as he pumped himself into his hand. Then William appeared in his imagination, holding him down, just like in the story. And William looked a little like Homer Jackson.

“Come for me, Reid,” William said in Jackson's husky voice. “Be a good inspector, and come for me.”

“Oh, Dear God!” Edmund grunted as his hips jerked and his cock pulsed. He threw his head back and groaned as his hot seed coated his hand and lined the inside of his pajama pants. He stroked himself, panting and moaning, through the pleasure of the orgasm until his cock began to soften. Then he limply pulled himself upright in the chair and allowed his head to loll back against the cushion as he caught his breath.

After a few minutes he shuffled to the kitchen for a moist towel and cleaned himself up. Slowly his brain resumed normal function. As it did he plunged into a state of anxiety. Shame. Fear.

How could he be so ridiculous? So weak and reckless. What if someone found out what he had done? He would be ruined. The memory of his daughter, ruined. And his work. The honor of every case he had ever solved, every criminal he'd ever put behind bars would be set aside in favor of his indiscretion. And, to think, what if Jackson somehow discovered his place in it. Edmund was suddenly mortified. His heartbeat quickened with his fear. He deserved Jackson's wrath. How dare he use his surgeon, his co-worker, his friend like that.

He tossed the towel on the kitchen table and rushed into the living room. Edmund snatched up the forgotten magazine and slammed it back on the pile, then turned away, desperate to separate himself from his act of selfishness. He slipped his spectacles off and hung his head in shame as he chastised himself.

Edmund tended to the fire and then went upstairs. He changed his pajama pants to a clean pair and slid himself into bed. The alarm clock on the nightstand read it was nearly one in the morning. He had time for a few hours of sleep before the alarm sounded. Sleep did not come easy, though, with shame and guilt as his bedfellows. When the alarm rang, he felt as if he had not slept at all.


	2. Wrong Side of the Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid isn't feeling well and doesn't like what he sees in the mirror. Is it exhaustion or something more? Jackson calls out Reid. Drake smirks. Violence warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to Fairclough1899 and Otava for their excellent proofing skills. You guys are the best.
> 
> I'm trying to keep the chapters fairly short. Per usual, comments/constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

When the alarm rang, Reid felt as if he had not slept at all. He turned off the alarm, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling while he assessed his overall condition. The covers were half wrapped around his legs. Sometime in the night he had grown hot and removed his pajama shirt, but now he shivered. His body held the telltale signs of too many sleepless hours. Joints creaked and his musculature felt lethargic. There was a subtle ache in the back of his throat, too. He swallowed, testing the extent of the soreness, and found it was not abhorrent. It was little more than a twinge and somewhat typical of snoring.

He unwrapped himself from the covers and dragged himself out of bed to prepare for work, but his heart was not in the task. Too often he found his thoughts drifting to the magazines in his living room, the lusty stories they held, and of his wanton reaction to them the night before. To his misuse of Jackson's friendship and the legal recourse which could be lodged against him if anyone ever discovered what he had done. To how Jackson might react.

In silence and shame he let his hands drop from the buttons of the shirt he was donning and shook his head. His heart ached and his stomach cramped as his mind taunted him with Jackson's disapproving glare. The face of his surgeon and friend twisted with disgust and ridicule. Reid’s stomach turned and suddenly he felt he might vomit. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He wiped it away and again shook his head, desperate to clear his lecherous foolishness from his thoughts. Work always proved a familiar distraction and he decided he would try to focus on yesterday's leftover cases. His mind latched on to the idea. There would be time enough to dote on his offenses after work. Until then, his duty should be his priority. It might even afford him an opportunity to make up for his misdeeds.

Steeling himself, he reached up to finish buttoning his shirt. His reflection in the dresser mirror caught his attention. Reflexively he jerked his gaze up to take in the movement and froze, the edges of his shirt clutched between his fingers. The raised tissue of his deformity stretched across his chest. Its fringes crawled up the side of his neck an inch or two, just low enough to be hidden by his shirt when he buttoned the collar. He stared at the scars as if he had forgotten what they looked like.

As a rule, the inspector avoided mirrors while his chest and neck were uncovered. It helped prevent him from reliving the memory of how he obtained the scars and the aftermath of the tragedy. If he hid them he did not have to think about his lost child, dead wife, the pain of the injuries, or how this once lively house now lay shrouded in shadows and dust. Once adored family possessions now lay decaying from disuse while he spent his days at work. When he was home he felt as though he were living in a memorial, a morbid museum, but he could not bear to throw most of it away. So many of the objects kindled memories of his family. But where these symbols of happiness could be destroyed, the scars on his body were a permanent and cruel reminder of loss.

Anger welled within him. Anger that his family had been destroyed while so many others prospered, that vile criminals walked happy and free while love and vitality had been ripped from his world. That he had been powerless to save his little girl. His anger fed from his loneliness, from his desperation for the touch of another. It fed from his loss and from the unfairness of it all. 

He released his shirt and clenched his hands into fists. His reflection seethed at him: half dressed, face red and enraged, damaged chest heaving. It was not a fatherly likeness, but a menacing visage. The sight inflamed him. “Foul, wretched world!” he yelled and took a lunging step forward. With all his might he slammed his right fist into the mirror, his body twisting with the exertion.

The glass shattered into a glittering spider web. Cracks streaked across its smooth surface. Shards rained down upon the dresser as the mirror was thrust backward into the wall. Its wooden frame slammed into the plaster façade, cracking and splitting upon impact. Reid’s fist continued through the glass and drove into the hard plaster shell. As the rest of the glass fell away, the crater of crumbling plaster was revealed. Reid yanked his fist back and snatched up a colorful vase from the dresser. He roared and hurled it at the wall next to the door. The moment it struck it was obliterated. Pieces of it ricocheted, shooting into the room as razor edged projectiles. A single piece flew at his face and he did not possess the inhuman speed necessary to avoid it. It sliced through the tender skin above his left eyebrow. He flinched away, growling in pain and anger, and behind him the remnants of the mirror and its frame crashed to the floor.

The effort and destruction quelled some of his anger. Reid stared off in the direction of the bed and tried to catch his breath. Memories of Emily, his late wife, surged to the forefront of his mind as he looked at the disheveled bedclothes. He saw the pleasant times they had once spent together, nestled and laughing in each other’s arms. He remembered their animated discussions. Their hopes and dreams. All smashed now, just like the vase against the wall. Her vase, he corrected himself. He had given it to her as a birthday present in their early years. His anger mutated into grief, then to remorse.

How could he be so repugnant? How could he destroy the very items that held the memories of their happiness together? Of their family? He cried out in anguish and frustration. Anxiously, he whirled around, searching the floor to collect pieces of the vase, but his vision blurred with tears. He reached to brush away the tears and found his hands shook. The adrenaline in his system was dissipating. In its wake sharp pain sprouted from the cut above his eye and his right hand. He turned his hand over and discovered shards of glass, bits of plaster, and torn skin across his knuckles, fingers, and the back of his hand. Blood oozed from some of the wounds, trickled from others. Droplets rolled down his fingers and landed on the floor. Pain strummed along his nerves, then his left eyebrow tickled. He skimmed the fingers of his left hand across the fine hair. They came away dotted in red.

A different sort of anxiety settled in. How would he explain such early morning injuries to Drake and Jackson? Without thinking he turned toward the mirror to view the damage to his face, only to receive the destruction of the mirror, its frame, and the wall behind it as a harsh reminder of his outburst. Quickly he opened a dresser drawer and pulled out an old handheld mirror of Emily’s. Holding it with his left hand, he peered into it and beheld the cut to his face. It was deep enough to bleed well, as facial injuries tended to, but not so deep he thought it needed stitches. He dropped the mirror on the dresser and headed to the bathroom to grab a pair of tweezers. Then he headed downstairs to the kitchen to find rags.

He found two acceptably clean rags and pressed one to the cut above his eyebrow. The other he wrapped loosely around his right hand. With a dejected sigh he eased into a chair at the kitchen table. His hand throbbed, but the discomfort could not mask the general ache in his body or the chill he could not seem to shake. It would be in his own best interest to get a good night's sleep, he knew, and resolved to leave work on schedule that evening instead of staying late again.

Reid waited as long as he dared, given he would no doubt be late for work at it was, then pulled the rag away from his forehead. He did not feel blood trickle. Considering the wound clotted, he unrolled the rag from his right hand and inspected the damage. He frowned. Several pieces of glass protruded from the flesh between his knuckles. The skin there, on his fingers, and on the back of his hand had been torn, leaving raw bleeding patches that would be hard to miss by even a casual observer. Bits of plaster were spread into the wounds and his hand was swelling.

He snatched up the tweezers and bent over his right hand, forcing the awkward fingers of his left to grip the metal pincers. One by one he removed the pieces of glass and bits of plaster embedded in his flesh. He dropped them without ceremony on the table. He winced each time, but he would not allow himself to complain. The mess he dealt with was his own fault and he held no illusions as to otherwise. When he thought he had removed all the debris, he left the kitchen table and poured water over his hand to cleanse it. 

Then he wetted one the rags and tried his best to clean his face. After depositing the refuse in the bin, he headed back upstairs to finish getting ready. On the way he grabbed another rag. This one he tied around his right hand as best he could, tightening the knot with his teeth and hoping the injury did not bleed through too quickly. 

Dressing turned into a chore. He was forced to be mindful of his injuries, lest he mar his clothing with smudges of blood. It added to the aggravation of the physical ailments with which he had awoken and the pains of self-inflicted injury. His irritation over his lack of self-control and subsequent tardiness to work festered over all of it. 

Complicating things was the matter of his gloves. He was able to stuff his left hand into its glove, again using his teeth, with little issue. However, his right would not fit. Between swelling and the added bulk of the rag, it was too thick. He shoved the glove into his coat pocket to try again later. It was a notable, but small, victory when he finally left his home in route to the station.

The trip to work only seemed to tire him more. Bursts of icy wind found all the cracks in the shell of his clothing. He shivered and buried his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. With a headache looming in his temples, Reid distracted himself with scenarios of deflecting the inquiries he knew would come from Jackson and Drake. Upon arrival he strode into the station, leaving his right hand in his pocket, and went directly to Sergeant Artherton at the front desk.

“Artherton. Cases?” he said, waiting for the desk sergeant to look up from his paperwork.

“Yes Sir, Inspect…” he replied, looking up. Artherton’s voice failed him as he took in Reid’s appearance. “Is there trouble, Sir?” The desk sergeant popped out of his chair. “Should I get the boys? Martin! Stewart!” Two portly coppers behind him looked up from piles of paperwork.

“No,” Reid sighed.

“Look alive, lads!” Artherton waved at the two officers. Their eyes lit up as they jumped out of their chairs and reached for their billy clubs.

“No! Artherton, stop!” ordered Reid. “There is no trouble. I very simply require the morning’s cases.” He offered his left hand and waited for the folders.

“Oh,” Artherton mumbled, looking dejected. He sank into his chair. Behind him Stewart and Martin sat back down. Artherton picked up a stack of folders and put it into Reid’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Drake and Jackson are waiting in the dead room, Sir. Asked me to inform you. Something about the Haynes girl.”

Reid’s heart skipped a beat. The Haynes case involved the kidnapping of a little girl for ransom. Though new, its leads had gone cold quickly and the citizenry was too skittish to discuss it. The case had proven impenetrable. It was as if the child had vanished into thin air. If Jackson and Drake wanted to see him about it, he hoped it was because they had discovered something useful. He nodded to Artherton and left the front desk, marching down the hallway to the dead room with his stack of folders.

Reid found pushing through the door to the dead room required more effort than he would have liked. Drake was pacing on the other side of the room. He stopped mid step and turned to face Reid. He looked taken back by what he saw, but said nothing. Reid took in the rest of the room and found Jackson standing in the far corner, leaning over some sample under a microscope.

“About time, Reid. What took you so long? Late night with...” he straightened and looked over at Reid. “Whoa.”

Reid ignored the comment and set his stack of case files on a nearby counter. “What news have you?” he asked them, hoping still to skip over their inquiries and move straight to business.

Drake took the hint. He turned away from Reid and gave Jackson his attention. By this, Reid took it that Jackson was the one with an update.

Where Drake was apt to follow orders, Jackson was apt to question them. “What happened to you?” He wiped his hands clean and left the microscope station to approach Reid. His eyes narrowed as he drew near. He was giving Reid a thorough inspection.

“Nothing of consequence. Have you news on the Haynes case?”

“That’s fresh,” said Jackson, pointing to the cut on Reid’s forehead. Jackson looked at Drake for support. 

Drake merely stared between them and waited to see which topic, the Haynes case or Reid’s condition, would prevail. He worked his jaw.

Jackson reached up to prod Reid’s cut, but Reid tilted his head away. 

“Jackson.”

“You’re pale, perspiring, fresh cut…” His gaze followed Reid’s right arm down and lingered on his pocket. “Huh,” he chuckled, as if his mind had come up with some clever joke to which only he was privy. Then he reached out and pushed Reid’s right shoulder.

Reid scowled as his body swayed, his jaw set. “Enough, Jackson. Time to work.” Why, he wondered, did Jackson always have to press issues? He felt his frustration bubbling to the surface again and he huffed.

Jackson shrugged. “Make me.” Again he pushed at Reid’s right shoulder.

Using his left hand, Reid snatched Jackson up by the front of his shirt and shoved him away. “That’s enough, Jackson!” he growled. The movement cost him precious energy. He leaned back against the counter and glanced at Drake, only to find his Sergeant was studying him, too. Reid averted his gaze and tried to conjure up a way to bring them back full circle to the normal work day he craved.

“Well now. That’s odd, ain’t it, Drake? I thought our man here was right handed. What happened, Reid, your right hand take a beating, too?” He danced out of Reid’s reach as he spoke.

Reid wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “It is not any of your concern, Captain!” he snapped. “It is your duty to report your findings, now do so or –”

“It IS my concern if it’s MY back you’re supposed to watch out there and you’re not up to snuff!”

Drake leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. The corner of his mouth up ticked in a smirk.

Reid fumed. His heart pounded. He knew his rage had to be evident on his face, just as it had been earlier in the mirror, and the memory of his reflection stymied his anger. Despair took its place. They were his friends, he knew, but he could not bear the thought of Jackson and Drake discovering the weaknesses his smoldering pains had wrought in him. Damn Jackson for not letting them simply work. 

“This is ridiculous,” Reid muttered.

“No,” Jackson scoffed. “What’s ridiculous is you’re not letting me look at your hand. It’s obviously bothering you. You’re hiding it in your damned coat.” Jackson pinned Reid with an unshakable glare.

Drake chuckled and shook his head.

Reid was torn. He despised Jackson in that moment for trying to force his hand, for the doctor’s insistence on ignoring proper chain of command whenever he deemed it alright to do so, and for him pushing the limits of their working relationship. Reid felt as if his private affairs were pinned to his sleeve for Jackson to pluck up and twist as he wished. Exposed. Especially so in front of Drake. But shame crept into the pit of Reid’s stomach. He found he could not ignore Jackson’s logic and questioned whether he was turning a small matter into an unnecessary argument. Was Jackson pressing the issue or was he himself behaving foolishly? The more he contemplated, the more muddled things became.

While Reid deliberated, Jackson inched closer. “I’m a doctor, Reid,” Jackson soothed. “Let me take a look at it for Christ’s sake. It’s what I’m trained to do.” His demeanor did not try to command or argue, it entreated.

Reid’s fight had left him. He was tired. He was achy, his throat was sore, and he could not decide if he was hot or cold, but he was sweating either way. His right hand throbbed with each pulse of his heart. “Fine,” he conceded. “Tend my hand, and then you will report your findings on the Haynes case.”

Jackson smiled. “You got it, boss,” he nodded and went off into the cabinets in search of supplies and equipment.

Drake strolled to the door. He looked amused. “I’ll have a word with Artherton, then, and leave you two to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm.. where are we going from here?


	3. Perceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund Reid's discomfort extends beyond the physical while he endures medical treatment at the hands of Doctor Homer Jackson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are doted upon and lavished with affection. 
> 
> Special thanks to Fairclough1899 and Otava for their continued excellence in editing.

Drake strolled to the door. He looked amused. “I’ll have a word with Artherton, then, and leave you two to it.” And then he was gone.

Jackson was bent over, rummaging around on the lower shelf of a cabinet. He pulled out a medium sized glass bowl, an opaque brown glass bottle, and gauze rags. After setting the equipment on one of the autopsy tables, he opened and closed a series of drawers as he fetched other supplies.

Reid watched the doctor move about the dead room with easy familiarity. Jackson’s confidence seemed magnified in these surroundings. As though he were perfectly at home and all who entered fell under his domain. Which was typically true, given the folks Jackson usually called patients were already deceased. The dead rarely argued. But there was more to the way Jackson carried himself than simple custom. He was a man who seemed comfortable regardless of his surroundings, as if his comfort zone traveled with him. This confidence extended to people, too. Jackson could charm any person he encountered as easily as he drew breath, yet his rather unique moral compass held him more or less on the side of good. 

Reid found himself pondering if Jackson had always been this way or if these were skills developed over time through experience. Personality, surely, was a large factor to his charm. Reid assumed himself to be a man of at least average intelligence, but he was seldom so confident in the ways Jackson consistently was. Women, specifically, came to mind. They flocked to Jackson as if he were a rare and valuable spice. Reid always found himself tongue tied in the presence of women he fancied and, though brevity may have been the soul of wit, it did little to impress the fairer sex. In other cases he hesitated too long in his pursuit and they lost interest while he waited for jolts of inspiration and certainty that never came. 

He wondered, as he watched Jackson continue to gather the equipment, if these abilities were why Jackson had entered his fantasy the night before. Was he jealous of the doctor’s skill? He shook his head. No, in his fantasy Jackson had been interacting directly with him, not someone else, and Jackson had been the instigator. A pang of anxiety cut through his gut. Was it possible he wished to be on the receiving end of Jackson’s affections? Reid felt sick to his stomach. Such thoughts were vile! He should be working to prosecute people for such crimes, not considering them himself. He jerked his gaze away from Jackson and turned toward the counter. He searched for some something, anything, to distract himself from this nightmare which would lead him down a path to losing his friend, and possibly more.

He pulled his right hand out of his coat pocket and saw dots of blood had seeped through the wrap he had applied earlier. His hand throbbed. He tried to straighten and spread his fingers, but pain sprouted from his knuckles. It stabbed across the back of his hand to his wrist and immediately he relaxed his fingers in hopes of easing the pain. He hissed against the discomfort, but welcomed its distraction. Reid closed his eyes, focused on the pain, and drew in a slow, deep breath. He felt Jackson’s presence at his side only a moment before the doctor spoke.

“Do you want something for the pain?” Jackson asked. He stood by Reid’s left elbow and gave him a quizzical look, eyebrows raised.

“No.” Reid averted his gaze to the countertop. “I don’t want my mind dulled.”

“Figured. Couldn’t hurt to ask. You know, might do you some good to dull your mind every once in a while.” 

Reid was reminded of a period in his life when he depended too much on spirits to medicate his mind. Then it occurred to him how often Jackson drank. “I assume you equate ‘once in a while’ with ‘every night’?”

Jackson ignored the gibe and leaned in, peering closely at his face. “Sure you’re feeling alright? Besides that hand and the cut? You look…odd.”

Reid felt Jackson’s chest brush his left arm. The contact unnerved him. It was not often he found himself in such close quarters with a coworker. Not as the focal point of their attention and never when he had fantasized about them night before. He swallowed and found his throat was still sore. More so, in fact. “Yes,” he choked out, staring at the counter.

“Lose the coat, Reid.”

“What?” Reid blurted and glanced at Jackson.

Jackson walked off in the direction of two chairs on the other side of the room. “The coat. And the jacket. Lose’em. And roll up your right sleeve. All that fabric is in the way.” He picked up the chairs and carried them to the table with the supplies.

“Oh. Of course.” Reid shrugged out of his heavy coat, folded it, and set it over the case files on the counter. No sooner had he removed his suit jacket than he was hit with a pronounced chill. Goosebumps broke out over his skin and he wondered if the dead room was usually this cold. He lay the jacket on his coat, along with his bowler. Then he unbuttoned his right sleeve and rolled it up as he walked over to sit down in one of the chairs.

Jackson patted the tabletop. “Let’s see it.”

Reid laid his right arm over the table with his hand aimed at Jackson. The doctor untied the rag with care and peeled it away. Some of the rag’s fibers clung to the drying blood and open wounds, and Reid tried not to wince as Jackson pulled at the fabric. In short order the injury was revealed. A few of the wounds still bled and in brighter light Reid could see he had missed some bits of glass and plaster. He was not surprised to find his hand swollen, but was a bit shocked by the discoloration around his middle knuckle.

“Jesus, Reid.” Jackson leaned back in his chair. He studied Reid for a moment, opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, but then shook his head and snatched up the bowl. “This will hurt.”

Reid was thankful Jackson did not ask how he came to acquire the injuries. He knew it was only a matter of time before Jackson’s curiosity got the better of him. The nature of the injury was obvious enough to any brawler, but Reid was not a man prone to fisticuffs and this would certainly raise questions in the minds of those who knew him. Inwardly he cringed at the prospect of Jackson and Drake discovering his outburst.

Jackson set the bowl in front of Reid and filled it halfway with the contents of the brown glass bottle. The acrid odor of the liquid was unmistakable. It was alcohol. Reid frowned. Jackson was right, this would not be pleasant.

“Whenever you’re ready, dunk your whole hand,” said Jackson. He stood, pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, and walked off behind Reid. “Make sure you don’t miss any cuts.” 

Reid heard Jackson, somewhere behind him, light a match and take a drag off the cigarette. He was thankful Jackson had not remained in the chair opposite to watch him face this unpleasantness and found himself a little more fond of the doctor for allowing him a bit of dignity. Reid stood so he might have a better angle to submerge his hand. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself and plunged his hand into the liquid. 

He had only a split second to acknowledge how cold the liquid was before it seared every wound, every cut and scrape and gouge that he had given himself. It felt as if he had set his hand on fire. He gasped at the shock of it. Then he tensed and clenched teeth, but could not stop himself from groaning. Tears welled in his eyes and he squeezed them closed. Grimacing, he dropped his chin to his chest to hide his discomfort. He tried to think about cases, about law, about anything other than the pain. 

A warm hand slid up his left shoulder blade and came to rest on his shoulder.

“Breathe, Reid,” said Jackson. He tightened his grip on Reid’s shoulder. “Breathe.”

Reid inhaled then, at Jackson’s direction, but found his breath uneven. He felt the heat of Jackson’s body next to his. His heart leapt as he considered Jackson might embrace him, but the thought was eradicated by the pain.

“Almost there, just a couple more seconds.”

Reid realized Jackson must be measuring the length of time his hand was submerged.

“Alright, take it out.”

Reid opened his eyes, pulled his hand out of the bowl, and gave it a subtle shake to dispense of any excess liquid. As his body relaxed, he let his head tilt back and hummed in relief. Then Jackson was turning him and pressing him down into the chair again.

“Sit.”

As Reid sat he wiped his eyes. He hoped Jackson missed that they were watery, but the doctor seemed busy swishing the business end of tweezers around in the bowl. Then Jackson pulled up his own chair nose to nose with Reid’s and plucked a gauze rag from the table.

“Let me see,” said Jackson, motioning to Reid’s hand.

Reid held his hand out. Jackson bent over it, patting it dry with unexpected tenderness. Reid had forgotten his friend was an actual doctor and not just a manipulator of the dead. He was used to seeing Jackson yank on bodies in search of clues and evidence. Rarely did he nurture the living. Yet Jackson supported Reid’s hand with a delicate grasp. His eyes narrowed as he inspected the wounds and observed the swelling. So attentive, so focused. 

Jackson’s hands were soft, but confident. Reid found his touch comforting. He watched Jackson’s fingers, more slender and tan than his own, skim over the back of his injured hand. It was a feather touch and made his skin tingle. Jackson encircled Reid’s wrist and carefully turned the hand over. The inside of Reid’s hand looked unscathed by cuts or tears, but there was swelling and bruising around his middle finger extending into his palm.

“Move your smallest finger for me. Just a hair.”

Reid complied.

“Pain?”

“Some. Nothing noteworthy.”

“Alright, move the ring finger.”

Reid moved his ring finger and found it pained him a more, but it was not overwhelming.

“Pain?”

“Comparable.”

“And the middle.”

Again Reid complied, but no sooner did he move it when there was an explosion of pain. He flinched and hissed.

“We have a winner.” Jackson rotated Reid’s hand back over. Cautious of the wounds, he positioned his thumb and forefinger along Reid’s middle finger between the first and second knuckle closest to Reid’s palm. Then he looked up at Reid. Gradually he applied pressure, felt along the bone, and watched Reid’s reaction.

Reid frowned as Jackson pressed on his swollen finger. It stung, not enough to make him groan. Jackson slid his fingers up to the larger of the two knuckles. He had barely begun to apply pressure when Reid grimaced. The pain was deep-seated and made him wish to jerk his hand away. Jackson immediately stopped pressing, but Reid could not hold back a grunt.

“Metacarpal,” Jackson mumbled. He slid his fingers up the back of Reid’s hand, testing the bones on the way to Reid’s wrist while taking care to mind the wounds.

Jackson’s hands were warm and his touch almost a caress. There was no torment from this part of the examination, but Reid felt uncomfortable. It had been too long since anyone had touched him with such kindness and affection. A chill passed through him. Not one caused by cold or pain, but rather by the butterflies of intimacy. He was certain Jackson did not mean for him to perceive the situation in this way. Yet, he could not help wishing the doctor would continue touching him. The sensation pushed past the shell of physical distress Reid was experiencing and created a rising tide of longing. It also reminded him of his actions the night before, forcing him to recall how he had abused himself with Jackson’s visage in mind. Now, instead of comfort, Jackson’s touch elicited guilt. Reid stiffened and willed himself not to pull away from Jackson. Again he averted his gaze, staring to the floor in hopes of distancing himself from these feelings.

Jackson was regarding him. “Pain?” he asked.

Reid continued to stare at the floor. He shook his head.

“Sure? You look like you’re in discomfort.” He paused in his ministrations to observe Reid, his thumb massaging Reid’s wrist.

Reid could not bring himself to gaze upon Jackson. It was too personal, too close, too stimulating after he had been at arm’s length from anyone for so long. He smoothed the palm of his left hand over his thigh while he sought an appropriate deflection.

“C’mon, Reid,” said Jackson, sounding annoyed. “No games. If it hurts, you need to tell me. Otherwise I might patch you up wrong.”

“I assure you my wrist does not pain me.” Reid ground out the words as quick as he could in hopes it would give credence to his pretense of composure.

“Well, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Could it be my agitation at your withholding case information?”

“You’re always agitated.”

Reid sighed and closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged with the weight of his fears and discomfort. Jackson placed the back of his hand against Reid’s forehead. It startled Reid. Compared to Jackson’s touch on his hand and arm, the fingers felt cool.

“Christ,” Jackson whispered. “You could start a fire with that fever. Are you coughing? Sore throat? Aching?”

Reid looked at Jackson. “We haven’t the time for this. My hand, and then your update. As agreed,” Reid intoned.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Of course. After all, why would anyone listen to a doctor?” He grabbed the tweezers from the table beside him. “You’ve most likely fractured one of your metacarpals. That would be the bones in the back of your hand. Consider yourself lucky it didn’t force its way into your carpal bones, because then your wrist would be torn up, too.” Again he bent over Reid’s hand. “As it is, this residual debris needs to be removed. Then we’ll dress the wounds, splint it, and in a few weeks you should be alright.”

Reid scoffed. “A few weeks?”

“Six to eight.” Jackson lowered the tweezers and began to gently poke around one of the nastier wounds on Reid’s hand.

“No. That won’t do. I –” He grit his teeth and twitched as the pain in his hand spiked.

“Stop. Don’t move.” Jackson tightened his grip on Reid’s wrist. 

Reid looked down at his hand. Jackson was pulling out something thin and silvery. Blood flowed freely from the wound once the object was removed. Jackson held the sliver up to look at it.

“Well, I’ll tell ya, Reid. If you don’t want to be bandaged up for the next six to eight weeks, stop punching… Mirrors? Is that what this is?” He looked perplexed. Then he gave Reid a sly look. “Where you not the fairest of them all?”

Reid felt the heat rise in his neck and cheeks. Scowling, he looked away.

“Aw, but you sure are purty when you blush.” Jackson said with a heavy drawl, then chuckled.

Reid tensed at the endearment. No matter how ridiculous it sounded uttered in Jackson’s exaggerated accent, it stirred Reid’s simmering affections. He glared at Jackson in warning. 

The doctor, however, did not seem threatened. Jackson held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Pushed it too far. Don’t beat me until we’re done here.” He lifted a piece of plaster from another wound, looked at it, eyed Reid, but said nothing.

Piece by piece Jackson removed shards of glass and bits of plaster Reid had missed. Reid watched for a while. Then he hung his head and closed his eyes again. Being stationary for a prolonged period of time made him feel sleepy, even if there were constant pinches and jolts of pain from Jackson’s work. He wished he had slept better. Then, perhaps, he would not feel so achy and cold. Finally, Jackson set the tweezers aside and tilted Reid’s hand to inspect his work.

“I think that does it for the shrapnel.” Leaning back, he stretched his neck and picked up a small jar of dark salve. Then he spooned some onto the wounds until they were all covered in the gooey substance.

The salve did not sting, but it was cold and augmented the lack of warmth Reid already felt. A chill swept over his skin. It started at his forearm and washed over his whole body. He suppressed a shudder, but could not control the goosebumps which sprang up on his arm. 

Jackson did not acknowledge Reid’s reaction. Once the salve was applied, he retrieved two pieces of flat, thin wood and a gauze rag from the tabletop. He wrapped the gauze around Reid’s hand, over the salve, and picked up another. “The goal here is to prevent that middle finger from moving. It’s not a bad break, but it’ll have to be kept stabilized.” He pushed one of the pieces of wood flat against the bandaged palm. “Hold that.”

Reid held the piece of wood in place.

Jackson placed the other piece on top of Reid’s hand. “These pieces will brace your fingers from moving up and down. We’ll wrap them in place with the gauze and your other fingers will act as a secondary splint, preventing your middle finger from moving from side to side. Downside, this won’t feel great.”

Reid accepted the impending discomfort with a frown and a downhearted sigh. “Proceed.”

Jackson began to wrap the cloth around Reid’s hand, sandwiching his palm and fingers between the two boards and his thumb securely to the board pressed against his palm. Layer by layer pressure built against the fracture and swelling until Reid’s hand pounded with each beat of his heart. Interjections of sharp pain made him look away and wince.

Finally, Jackson tied off the cloth. “We’ll check it daily to monitor progress. Keep your hand elevated above your heart whenever possible. Do NOT get this wet, understand?”

Reid nodded.

“Is it throbbing?”

“Yes,” said Reid, hopeful Jackson might have a way to alleviate the pain without the use of drugs.

“Expect that for the next several days.” He gave his patient a pointed look. “Reid, there’s no shame in taking something for pai– ”

“No. I will not allow this to affect my performance.”

Jackson frowned and pointed to the tabletop. “Elevate.”

Reid set his elbow on the table and lifted his injured hand into the air. It resembled a club of whitish cloth with two slender boards poking out where his fingertips would be.

“It IS going to affect your performance,” said Jackson as he leaned back in his chair and pulled another cigarette from his pocket. He pushed it between his lips. “It’s your dominant hand. Think of all the things you do with that hand. For instance, how are you gonna write?” He lit a match, held it to the end of the cigarette, and inhaled. Then he shook the match to extinguish its small flame and tossed it on the tabletop.

In defiance Reid opened his mouth, but he was at a loss for a rebuttal. He wondered how he would handle the daily paperwork for the next month and a half. A typewriter might work. One would have to be procured, it would take time, and the standard forms were not set up for use with such modern technology. He could ask one of the men to take dictation, but he loathed having to ask them for aid on such menial tasks because he was hurt. It was demoralizing. He rubbed at his forehead to try and ease the tension he felt. His temples smarted with the inklings of a headache.

Jackson sat quietly, smoking and watching his flustered patient.

Reid cleared his throat. “Would you fetch Drake so he might hear your report as well?” he muttered.

“Sure thing.” Jackson stood, but paused.

Reid tilted his head and looked up at him.

Jackson smiled softly, his kind eyes accented by a few wrinkles at their corners. He gave Reid’s left shoulder a pat and a squeeze.

The touch of affection caught Reid off guard. He saw compassion in Jackson’s eyes and felt the weight and heat of Jackson’s hand through his shirt. It was comforting, but made him uneasy. The moment felt outside the boundaries of their working relationship. Again, too personal. Reid vacillated between wanting to sink into it and wanting to recoil.

Then, before he could decide, Jackson walked out of the dead room.

Surely, Reid thought, he had misread the intimacy of the moment. Jackson was a doctor, after all. Such touches were probably common given his occupation and genial nature. As the moment faded into memory, he looked at his wrapped right hand and began to stew on his self-inflicted misfortune. 

Six to eight weeks seemed like a century. Leading the men with such a public display of fragility was a challenge he would not enjoy. He had done so before with mottled facial bruises or a damaged shoulder in a sling, but this would hinder even the simplest of tasks. His right hand was useless to even hold a spoon. “Christ,” he said, shaking his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Research Notes:
> 
> According to "A History of Trauma Care From Cutter to Trauma Surgeon" by Jody Foss, RN (AORN Journal, July 1989, VOL. 50, NO 1, Page 26; http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1016/S0001-2092(07)67632-7/pdf), germ theory had been proven by 1880, hence my use of alcohol on the tweezers. However, at the time, the preferred method of instrument sterilization was actually heat. Also, alcohol makes a good topical disinfectant, but you should only ever submerse your hand in a bowl of alcohol as a last resort. We'll chalk that up to limited resources and the fact I like to make characters suffer.
> 
> Sterile gauze was around in the late 1880's. Johnson & Johnson is credited with mass-producing sterile dressings and gauze in 1887. The company debuted their first commercial first aid kits in 1888. (https://www.jnj.com/our-heritage/18-facts-about-the-history-of-band-aid-brand-adhesive-bandages)
> 
> Long before Disney... Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm first published Snow White in 1812 as a part of their collection "Grimms' Fairy Tales". In total, their work was published sixteen more times, the last being in 1857. These stories would seriously freak out today's lads n' lasses. They were incredibly violent.


	4. The Deptford Files

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, in Chapter 4: The game is on! After a lead mysteriously arrives at H-Division's doorstep, our trusty trio must follow the clue into London's shipyards with potentially devastating results.
> 
> Previously, in Chapter 3: Reid arrives late to work following a tumultuous morning at his house. Upon arrival to the dead room, Jackson exposes Reid's injury. Reid reluctantly agrees to let Jackson treat the injury and Drake leaves the room to speak with Artherton. During treatment, Reid finds himself flustered by Jackson's attentions. After Jackson completes treatment on Reid's injured hand, Jackson leaves the dead room to fetch Sergeant Drake so the trio can resume their meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism, commentary, and kudos are welcome and appreciated! Special thank you to Otava and Fairclough1899 for their beta skills. This would suck without you guys.
> 
> Research notes follow after the chapter.

Reid left his chair and walked over to the counter near the door to fetch the suit jacket and overcoat he had laid over a stack of files earlier. He had just managed to force his bandaged hand through the right sleeve of his suit jacket when Jackson strode back through the door with Drake at his heels. Jackson headed off toward the drawers on the opposite side of the room, but Drake paused inside the door to consider Reid.

“Sir,” Drake acknowledged his supervisor. His gaze darted to the bandages on Reid’s hand.

Reid finished donning his suit jacket. He knew there was no use hiding the gauze monstrosity from his trusty second. Better to inform him up front. “Sergeant,” he replied. Then frowned and raised his right hand for Drake to see.

Drake was not a verbose man. He scowled, but held his tongue.

“Gentlemen,” Jackson drawled as he stepped up to one of the empty tables with a small wooden box in one hand.

Drake averted his attention to Jackson and the box he carried. He walked over to the doctor.

Reid followed. He knew then the matter of his hand was closed with Drake, but Jackson could be expected to press the issue again. It was the nature of the Doctor’s innate curiosity, a feature which both pleased and aggravated Reid depending upon circumstances.

Jackson set the box on the tabletop. “This morning Artherton made a discovery outside the front door of this very station.” He flipped open the lid, letting it fall to the table. Inside the box sat a single brown leather shoe. 

The shoe was about six inches in length, its sole and upper were leather. It was soft, most likely sheep’s skin, and closed with a bronze silk ribbon tied into a bow. It was a fanciful child’s shoe. Reid was confident in his recollection that the only other shoe he had ever seen like it belonged to the kidnapped girl. The gratification of a newly discovered lead fluttered in his stomach. He welcomed the diversion from his ongoing aches and pains.

“This is from the Haynes’ girl? An identical match for the one still in her mother’s possession?” He glanced at Jackson for confirmation.

Jackson nodded. “Sure is.” He stepped away to light a cigarette. “Dropped off this morning right on our doorstep.”

“By whom?”

Jackson exhaled a stream of smoke and shrugged. “Magic.”

Reid frowned. “An answer acceptable only in fairy tales. Have we questioned–”

“Artherton sent out the boys to question those in the area as soon as it was discovered, but either folks don’t know anything or they’re not inclined to tell us. Nobody said nothing. Not even after some ‘incentive’ was applied.”

Reid worried his bottom lip and bent over to thoroughly inspect the shoe. The craft work was quality, but the leather was scuffed and dingy. The ends of the ribbon were coated in a film. Reid scooped the shoe up, propped it on his right forearm, and rubbed the ribbon between his left thumb and forefinger. It felt oily. Then he noticed a thick matted material dried onto the shoe’s sole. A pungent smell emanated from the substance and he quickly pulled the shoe away from his clothing.

“Am I correct in assuming this substance on the sole…”

“Manure.” Jackson nodded again.

“And this oily compound on the ribbon?” Reid set the shoe back in the box.

“Best I can tell, linseed oil.”

“Linseed oil,” repeated Reid. This was not something he was familiar with. He glanced sideways at Drake, but the Sergeant shrugged and shook his head. Reid looked back to Jackson.

“Used in marine varnish. And I only know that because of my trip over from the States. Stepped in a mess of it on the way here.”

Reid tapped a finger on the table as he contemplated. “Is it only for marine use?”

“Varnish is varnish, as far as I know. I’d imagine you could use it on anything that’s out in the weather. Carriages and the like.”

“Any place finishing or refinishing carriages is likely to have horses at their disposal, which makes our task of discovering the origins of this shoe obscenely difficult.” Reid sighed.

A wide smile spread across Jackson’s face. His eyes crinkled merrily.

“What?” Reid asked him, curious as to the merriment on his friend’s face. “What is it you know?”

“It’s not horse manure.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Drake asked.

Jackson slapped his palm on the table. “Nitrogen!”

Reid grinned. Jackson’s scientific revelations always made him feel giddy. It was as if he were watching progress knock down the front door of antiquated Whitechapel. “Explain.”

“Not all dung is created equal. Horse manure and cow manure may look a lot alike once it’s dry on the bottom of your shoe, but cattle shit has less nitrogen than horse shit. There’s even a difference between dairy and beef stock, but that don’t matter here. My point is, this ain’t from a horse. It’s cow shit. So, you’re not looking for a place that works on carriages.”

Reid had already caught on. “I believe we’re off to the docks, then.”

“Reckon so,” said Jackson as he took another drag of his cigarette before stamping it out in a nearby bin.

“Because of manure and linseed oil?” questioned Drake. He looked curious and unconvinced.

“Yes,” nodded Reid as he replaced the box’s lid. “Consider imported cattle. I cannot think of a more likely place to find both marine varnish and cow manure.”

Drake thought a moment, shoving his hands inside his pockets. “Cattle ships, right. Where do we begin? Saint Katharine’s?”

“No, I believe all foreign cattle must now be processed through Deptford’s Foreign Cattle Market.”

“South to Deptford, then. I’ll muster transport.” Drake nodded to them both and left the dead room.

“Jackson, your presence would be prudent should we locate the Haynes’ girl and find her requiring immediate medical assistance.”

“Ahead of you.” Jackson closed up his medical bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Reid walked over to the counter nearest the door to fetch his overcoat. His suit jacket did little to insulate him from the room’s cool air and he was anxious to put the coat back on. “We should take that item with us,” he said, motioning to the box. “May prove useful in questioning.” He was careful not to jar his injury as he pushed his right hand through the coat’s sleeve. Sharp, stabbing pain occasionally punctuated its continuous throbbing, but for now he was thankful to hold his queasiness at bay. He shifted his frame to drag the coat over his shoulders and found Jackson at his side holding a cloth. The telltale acrid stench of alcohol wafted from it.

“One last thing,” said Jackson as he waved the cloth in the direction of Reid’s forehead.

Reid paused, his partially donned coat sagging off his frame. He had forgotten about the cut to his forehead. It smarted, but its discomfort was nothing compared to the state of his hand or his general condition. The chills that had washed over him earlier had settled deep inside, accenting his aches and pains. Yet he still perspired. Given the totality of the circumstances he found the cut little concern. But there Jackson stood with his cloth held high, a soft smile on his face, and the tentative hope of delivering medical aid in his eyes. Despite feeling frustrated, Reid could not summon the energy to thwart him. He did not move when Jackson lifted the cloth to his face.

“This will sting,” Jackson whispered.

“I am aware.” Reid closed his eyes. Jackson pressed the cloth to his skin. Reid felt its coolness, then drew in a sharp breath at the burning sensation which followed. Jackson held the cloth in place and Reid supposed he was measuring some amount of time just as he had done with Reid’s hand. Then Reid felt a tug on his overcoat. He dared not open his left eye with the alcohol cloth so close, but he squinted his right and peered at Jackson.

Jackson was frowning. With one hand he held the rag to Reid’s head and with the other he was tugging on Reid’s coat. Jackson pulled several times until he lifted the fabric and wrapped it around Reid’s left shoulder.

Jackson was helping him to dress. The display of kindness and affection felt too intimate to fall within the boundaries of platonic friendship. A different sort of ache curled in his stomach, one he recognized as desire for the unattainable, and a pang of anxiety ran through him. His breath stuttered. He realized with one misspoken word or inappropriate reaction he might destroy the fleeting moment and/or expose his attraction to Jackson. Desperate to control himself, Reid froze.

Finally, Jackson removed the cloth and dropped it on the counter next to the stack of files behind Reid. Reid expected Jackson to leave then, but he hesitated. Jackson leveled his gaze at the floor, scratched at his mustache, and then reached up to rub at the back of his neck.

Reid watched Jackson massage himself. The skin on Jackson’s neck looked smoother than he recalled. He felt an urge to reach out and smooth his fingertips over it. Then it dawned on him that Jackson’s demeanor had changed. Instead of his usual affable manner, he appeared awkward. Even nervous. It was a rare state for a man so naturally given to pronounced confidence. 

Reid’s mind raced through his knowledge of traditional etiquette as he searched for a way to alleviate the tension. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. He was stumped. He felt lost and stood there, dumbfounded, blinking at Jackson as if the situation might change in the flickers of darkness.

Jackson looked lost in thought, staring at the floor and clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He swayed his hips to shift his weight from his left foot to his right. And back again. Then he brushed away the edges of his suit jacket and settled his hands on his hips. 

Reid closed his mouth and stared at Jackson. Not once did Jackson look up. Reid did not know whether he should feel thankful or terrified by this odd display from his friend.

Jackson chuckled to himself. His deliberation seemed concluded. “Alright,” he muttered to himself with a dismissive wave of his hand and raised his gaze to survey Reid’s suit jacket. Then he stepped to Reid’s right, tugged at the other side of Reid’s overcoat, and pulled the material over Reid’s shoulder. Jackson moved in front of Reid to straighten the coat’s lapel and then reached behind to flatten the collar. As he did, his thumbs brushed Reid’s skin.

Tingles feathered out across Reid’s skin and he struggled not to gasp at the unexpected contact. He felt a flush creep up his neck and coat his cheeks. 

Jackson gave the overcoat one last appraisal, still failing to meet Reid’s eyes. “Meet you out back,” he whispered. He gave Reid’s right shoulder a firm pat, turned, and walked out of the dead room.

Reid stared after Jackson until the dead room’s door swung shut. Then he glanced about the empty room, half expecting to find some wide-eyed witness to the awkward yet intimate moment he and Jackson shared. He composed himself, smoothing his palm over his lapel as his mind resumed function. Jackson’s behavior stumped him. Even when Jackson was unsteady on his feet due to injury or drink, he was not the sort to flinch away from looking another man in the eye. Even when it was foolishly to his own detriment. Seeing him fidgety and unwilling to make eye contact was a rarity. It usually meant he was troubled. 

Jackson had been his usual self this morning, until he applied the wipe to Reid’s cut and aided him in donning his overcoat. Had helping him dress upset Jackson? A pang of guilt rolled through him. Perhaps Jackson was embarrassed with providing him such menial assistance. There was certainly a difference in dressing a cadaver versus dressing a living, conscious person who happened to be your friend, co-worker, and supervisor. He chastised himself for placing Jackson in a position which made him so obviously uncomfortable. Had he held himself in check earlier that morning, he would not have had to rely on Jackson’s expertise. It was unprofessional and, moreover, an inexcusable way to treat a co-worker and friend. He recalled he was already guilty of misappropriating Jackson’s visage. 

The chills, aches, and pains returned with vigor. Gritting his teeth in anger and against his discomfort, he strode over to the table and snatched up the wooden box. He resolved to regain Jackson’s confidence in the course of their investigation. By its completion, he decided, his professionalism and abilities would not be questioned and a little girl would be returned to her family. He shoved the box under his arm and blundered through buttoning up his jacket and coat. Then he left the dead room to meet Drake and Jackson.

Reid took the first available spot in the transport. Drake chose a seat beside him and Jackson sat across from them. The ride to Deptford was bumpy and did little to keep Reid’s stomach settled. The jolt of each and every crack and disfigurement London’s streets had to offer jarred his body and sent a spike of pain through his hand. Holding the injury away from his body eased the discomfort, but halfway along their journey the chills transformed into a hot flash. He wiped the sweat from his brow several times and pointedly ignored Jackson’s gaze when he caught him staring. By the time they reached the market, Reid’s shirt was sticking to his skin and he had unbuttoned his heavy coat.

Deptford’s Foreign Cattle Market sprawled over twenty-seven acres and held more than one hundred thousand live cattle and forty thousand sheep. Upon their arrival the smell was first to greet them. Drake, first out of the transport, noted they should be thankful to visit in winter instead of a sweltering summer day. Jackson and Reid followed. 

Now on solid ground, Reid took a moment to steady himself. He felt queasy.

“Pretty chilly to be sweatin’ buckets, Reid,” Jackson commented with a look of concern.

Reid did not care to take a tangent on his health. There had already been enough of that this morning. Finding the missing girl was their goal and he did not want them to lose track of that. “Your concern, Captain, is the girl should we locate her.”

The trio set off to the Market’s main office.

The door’s bell chimed as they entered the office. To the left, a small desk was littered with stacks of papers, account books, bits of tobacco, and pencil shavings. Beyond was a single closed door stenciled with the word ‘Manager’. The main counter was manned by a thin youth who puffed himself up to his full height as Drake, Jackson, and Reid approached.

“Help you lads?” the clerk squeaked at them.

“We’re to speak with your manager,” Reid boomed. He was in no mood to prolong their trip. The quicker the lad was intimidated the faster they would speak with someone in charge.

The young man glanced between them. He cleared his throat and fidgeted with a few papers on the counter. “He’s, uh, he’s busy. You see. Can’t be bothered. Important business with the last load of stock.”

It was not lost on Reid that his size could be intimidating. He had found pressing his size advantage, simply crowding himself into someone’s personal space and looming, often obtained results more difficult to achieve with words. It was the implied threat. 

Reid mustered some energy. He glared at the clerk and stepped up to the counter, setting his left fist on the countertop next to the younger man’s fidgeting hand. His hand dwarfed the clerk’s. He leaned over the counter.

“What is your name?” said Reid, dropping the pitch of his voice.

“Davies.” He took a step back from the counter.

Reid raised an eyebrow at the clerk.

“Sir. Edgar Davies. Sir.”

“Well, Davies,” Reid flashed his badge wallet, “we are the police. I suggest you bother your master from his important business before we find cause to drag you in for interrogation in the matter of a child’s kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” Davies shook his head. He face paled and he glanced between the three of them. “Oh, no, Sir. I haven’t had nothing to do with no kidnapping.”

“Then procure your master.” Reid leaned further over the counter. “Now,” he growled.

Davies nodded. “Yes, Sir, Sir.” He whirled around and bolted for the Manager’s door, but fumbled with the handle twice before finally pushing the it open and disappearing into the office. He closed the door behind him.

Reid sighed and rested against the counter. A chill swept through him and he realized he was no longer hot, but cold again. The sweat soaked material of his shirt felt icy against his skin. He straightened and worked to button his coat with a jittery left hand.

Jackson stepped to his side. “Want a hand?” he whispered.

“No.”

Jackson shrugged and walked off, eyeing Drake. Drake shook his head.

The door to the Manager’s office flew open and a portly man strolled out with a wide smile plastered across his reddish face. Davies cowered behind him, ringing his hands. “Gentleman,” the plump man boomed. “My name is Howard Wood and I am the on duty manager. How can I, and the humble employees of the City of London Corporation, assist the fine officers of this grand city?”

The manager reminded Reid of a ringmaster, sans the gaudy show suit. He was every bit a grandiose showman. Just the sort of man Drake would detest, which would be a boon should the manager need persuading. “We find ourselves brought here by our investigation into a kidnapping.” Reid narrowed his eyes, studying Wood, but the manager’s smile did not falter. His face did not so much as twitch. 

“And what may I do for you?”

Reid handed Wood the box. “Does this item hold any significance for you?”

Wood took the box, placed it upon the counter, and opened it. “I am no cobbler, but this appears to be a child’s shoe. Surely you did not come here for that insight.”

“This shoe belongs to a little girl who was abducted not two full days ago.”

“You’re referring to the Haynes’ girl.”

“What do you know of her?”

Wood shrugged. “Only what I read in the papers. Five or so years of age, taken right under her governess’ nose while they were at market. What’s it got to do with us?”

“The staining on the shoe as well as the substance matted to the sole.” Reid watched as Wood bent to more closely inspect the shoe.

“Linseed oil.”

Reid glanced over at Jackson, who smiled in quiet victory at the accuracy of his deduction. 

“And,” Wood continued, flipping the small shoe over. “Well, that’s a substance I’d rather not stick my nose in.” He set the shoe back in the box and deflated in thought. “You think the Haynes’ girl is stowed somewhere with my cattle.”

Reid looked curiously at the man. “Is there any reason for me to think so?”

“None by my hand, I assure you.” He sighed. His showmanship had lost its flamboyant zeal. He resembled every bit a tired, overworked manager. “Boy,” he said to Davies and waved at the small desk. “See what ships have been at dock long enough to unload their cargo, whose crew might be refinishing the vessel’s wood work.”

Davies skirted the counter, went to the desk, and thumbed through one of the thick inventory books. “Three, Sir. The Daphne, the Agnes, and the Ann.”

Wood shook his head. “Ann’s no good. Only just launched. Can’t see a reason it would need refinishing. The Daphne and the Agnes might be what you’re looking for. I can afford you passage to the docks, certainly, but power over the ships themselves is retained by their captains.”

“I understand.” Reid picked up a pencil and hastily scribbled his particulars onto a loose piece of paper. “Should you come across anything that might be of interest to us, send word with your boy.”

The ride through the market to the docks was worse than the trip to Deptford on public roads. All three were glad to give their backsides a rest by the end of the journey. Davies, who had ridden up front with the driver, hopped down and led them to their first stop, the Daphne.

They could not help stopping to admire the ship’s form. The sails of the impressive clipper had been secured to its three tall masts. Its deck and hull were immaculate. Each coil of rope and knot looked perfectly in place. 

Several members of her crew milled about working on various tasks and Davies called one of them over for an introduction. As Drake, Jackson, and Reid looked on, Davies glossed over the purpose of the interruption and asked to speak with Daphne’s captain. The crew member seemed agreeable and left to fetch his master.

It was only a few minutes of waiting, but the wind blowing over the docks bit into Reid’s neck and face. He wished he had brought along a scarf. Jackson rubbed his hands together before shoving them deep into his pockets. Drake stood stoic, idly watching the affair with his collar upturned. Reid was wondering if Drake ever felt cold when a wiry man, bundled in a dark wool sweater, disembarked Daphne and approached.

“Captain Claxton,” he called and extended a hand in greeting.

Reid had been hoping to avoid the awkwardness of displaying his injured hand. His heart sank. “Forgive me if I do not shake your hand,” he said, flashing his bandage before shoving his hand back into the relative warmth of his coat pocket.

Claxton did not seem impressed. He dropped his hand, narrowed his eyes at Reid, and kept a notable distance between himself and their party. Several scars marked his face. Reid recognized him as a man not easily intimidated. “My crew tells me you’re searching for someone.”

“Indeed. We’re in search of a missing girl. Kidnapped for assumed nefarious purposes. When did you unload your live-stock?”

“Didn’t.”

“Sorry?” Reid tilted his head. He wondered if his mind was more muddled than he thought.

“Didn’t unload our stock because we haven’t any. Dropped off grain. We’ll pick up wool, sail to Australia, and pick up coal to bring back here.”

“Might we have a look at your hold to verify?”

The captain glanced around at the group of them. His wary gaze settled on Drake.

“Sir,” said Davies. “Mr Wood would be most grateful for your cooperation in helping to find this child.”

Reid’s opinion of Davies shifted. An annoyance and hindrance before, now his eagerness to please might assist in their investigation. “The Metropolitan Police would also be grateful for your assistance, of course.” Claxton was still staring at Drake. Reid supposed Claxton sensed the dangerous nature of his friend. Reid took a step closer to close the distance between them and garner the Captain’s attention. “And, needs be, it will only be myself and my surgeon accompanying you onboard.”

Claxton clucked his tongue. “Fine, in the interest of putting this behind us. And, yeah, that one,” he said, motioning to Drake, “stays here.” Drake smirked. Jackson shook his head at Drake.

Their inspection supported the captain’s assertion. Grain residue remained in the hold and there was no sign of live animals ever having been aboard the vessel. It occurred to Reid, while navigating the steep stairs and narrow halls of the clipper, that he had not thought through his participation. Though out of the wind, the ship’s subtle rocking made the bile rise in his throat and he knocked his injured hand twice. On the second occasion he had not been able to stifle a groan. 

By the time they reached the second ship, the Agnes, Reid’s thoughts had drifted more than once to the warm comfort of his bed. No longer could he deny some greater fiend was at work than simple exhaustion or the discomfort from his broken knuckle. He recognized an illness, but was determined to complete the day’s work before allowing himself to give in to its hold. A little girl was depending upon their efforts. He would not fail her as he had his own daughter.

The Agnes’ hull bore over three hundred feet of iron plating. It was of modern design, a steamer, and boasted four decks under the shadow of its looming smoke stack. Unlike the pristine Daphne, it was at once obvious Agnes transported live-stock. Even if the smell had not immediately caught their attention, plops of dung and bits of hay littered the dock where the cattle must have been unloaded. Again, Davies called a crewman over and, again, he sent them off to locate the captain. Reid waited in their transport, content to keep himself out of the icy wind until the ship’s captain arrived.

This Captain was an older man. His thick beard was tinged with gray on his chin and years at sea had weathered heavy lines into his face and hands. An unlit cigar protruded from his yellowed teeth.

“Captain Baker, Inspector. What’s this about?” the Captain asked in a gruff voice.

For the third time Reid explained the reason for their visit. Baker nodded, silent, and inspected the shoe when he was shown.

“And you think this girl’s aboard my lady?”

“If you would oblige us, Sir, we hope to have this matter sorted as quickly as possible. To do that, we will need access to your ship.”

“Doesn’t make sense, though.”

Reid knotted his brow. “How is that?”

“Agnes is iron. Iron hull, hold, and decks. There’s some wood, sure, but none we’re refinishing.”

“Would you permit us to see for ourselves?”

Baker shrugged. “Whatever gets you and your men out of my hair the quickest.”

With Baker as their guide, the group toured the Agnes’ four decks. Reid could not help but marvel at the modern construction techniques and Jackson’s eyes were lit with delight. Drake was not as enthusiastic. While searching the hold he lost his footing to a wet pile of dung. He skidded a few feet before landing soundly on his rump. Jackson was forced to turn away and clamp his hand over his mouth to prevent his laughter from escaping while Reid helped Drake to his feet.

As they headed back upstairs, a young crew member approached Captain Baker. He fidgeted with his cap and a sheen of sweat glistened over his face despite the cooler winter temperatures. “S..Sir,” he said to the captain. “M..Might I have a w..word?” 

“Yes, John.” Captain Baker excused himself.

“Well, Reid,” Jackson whispered when they were alone. “I thought we were on the right track, but there’s no reason for them to have linseed oil out and about on this ship right now.”

Reid nodded. “It appears our trail may be running cold yet again.”

“Maybe we should go back, speak with the manager, and see if there are any other ships we should visit?” Drake offered.

“Gentleman,” Captain Baker had returned with the crewman at his side. Baker’s cheeks were reddened and he frowned. “John here informs me another crewman might be of interest to you.”

Reid looked at John. “Speak. What is it you know?” he ordered.

“S..Sir, I heard them talking about a g..girl.”

Reid stepped forward, eager for John to continue. “What was said?”

“S..Said they would m..make a load off her in ransom, b..but if not she was to b..be sold.”

“Who said this?”

John looked at Captain Baker. “Was your n..nephew, Captain. Was Vincent.”

“Vincent!” Captain Baker exclaimed.

“Tell me about Vincent,” Reid urged. “Speak man, a little girl’s life depends on your candor and speed.”

Captain Baker growled and shook his head. “Just took Vincent on as a favor to me sister. He’s been down on his luck at the tables.” He turned to John. “Who was Vincent speaking with?”

“I d..dunno, Sir,” John replied. “Was d..dark. They w..was in the shadow of the w..warehouse.”

Reid glanced at Drake, who needed no more instruction to act. Drake darted forward, snatched John up by his coat, and slammed him against the nearest wall. John yelped as his back thumped against the hard surface.

“Who was Vincent talking to?” Drake screamed nose to nose in the young man’s face. There was darkness in his eyes. “Tell me or you’ll feel my fist against your flesh!”

Tears formed in John’s eyes. “I d..d..don’t know! I c..c..couldn’t see!” he cried.

Drake yanked John from the wall and slammed him against it once more. “Tell me, you filthy runt!”

John raised his hands to cover his face. “I d..d..don’t know! Honest!”

Drake looked convinced enough of John’s honesty, but looked at Reid for confirmation. Reid nodded his agreement and Drake let John go. John slumped to the floor in tears while Captain Baker fumed.

“Where can we find Vincent?” Reid asked Captain Baker.

“Why the hell should I tell you anything? If this is how you’re going to treat my crew –“

“Tell me or I shall have you dragged in for withholding information vital to an investigation.” Reid scowled. He recognized their rapport with Captain Baker had been destroyed, but knew their business was to protect and serve, not to make friends. He needed to be sure John had been telling the truth and now no time could be wasted. Vincent was key. And their only lead.

Captain Baker sighed, lifted his cap, and scratched at his forehead. “Usually finds himself at The Black Horse.”

“What is this place, a pub?” asked Reid.

Captain Baker nodded.

“I know this place, Sir,” said the ever eager Davies.

“Then you will take us there immediately,” said Reid.

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.” Davies shot a wary glance at Drake.

“And, Captain Baker, you will accompany us also, so that you might identify your nephew, Vincent.”

“I most certainly will not,” Baker chortled.

Drake took a step toward the Captain, but Reid held up a hand to stop him. “Captain, you would see a little girl lost by your indiscretion?”

“Take John with you. He knows what my Vincent looks like. Let him do the identifying.” John, still slumped on the floor, sobbed at his Captain’s suggestion.

“You would condemn your crewman to torment from his fellow sailors for turning in one of his own?” Reid said in disbelief.

“Bloody fine! Alright? Let’s get on with it, then.”

Minutes later they had disembarked from the Agnes, boarded the transport, and were off to The Black Horse. It was not a long journey, but Reid took the opportunity to rest his weary, aching body. He let his head fall back against the wall of the transport and closed his eyes. Despite the bumps, he could feel the tug of sleep. Then a hard bounce knocked the carriage about and the back of his head banged against the wall. Reid winced and opened his eyes to find Jackson staring at him. Reid wondered if he looked as haggard as he felt and supposed, judging by the look of sympathy on Jackson’s face, that he probably did. However, Jackson held his tongue and Reid was thankful for the small gift from a man who usually said whatever was on his mind.

The Black Horse was sandwiched between a rundown toy emporium and a tattered barbershop. It looked as though no one had bothered to sweep up the street in a year. The window panes of The Black Horse were opaque with grime, the floor was sticky under their shoes, and tobacco smoke filled the air. It stung Reid’s eyes.

Drake led the procession. Reid followed behind with a disgruntled Captain Baker and Jackson pulled up the rear. For as narrow as The Black Horse was, it was long and packed shoulder to shoulder with drunken patrons. The group passively meandered through the crowd so as not to draw attention. Then Captain Baker stiffened, stopped walking, and tugged on Reid’s sleeve.

“Inspecta,” he whispered. “That’s him. That’s my Vincent.” Baker pointed toward the far corner, near the back door of the pub.

“Which?” Reid asked as his gaze passed over a group of younger men loitering in the corner.

“Navy cap. Scar on his left cheek, pint in hand, jacket over the chair behind him. Do you see?”

Reid spotted Vincent. He looked to be a fit young man. Reid hoped Vincent would come quietly for questioning. He had no stomach or energy for pursuit or combat. He caught Drake’s attention and pointed Vincent out just as Vincent spotted their little group. Reid watched Vincent’s gaze pass over Captain Baker, Drake, and himself. Vincent’s eyes widened and Reid could see his mind working. The pint dropped out of his hand. Before the glass shattered on the floor Vincent had snatched up his jacket and wrenched open the back door.

“Vincent, stop! Police!” Drake yelled above the crowd.

Vincent bolted out of the exit.

Reid cursed.

Drake did not wait for instruction. He took off like a hound after a fox, barreling over patrons too slow or too intoxicated to move out of his way in time. Reid and Jackson followed. The three of them emerged from the pub just in time to see the white of Vincent’s shirt flee down the narrow alley and around a corner. 

Drake took off again in pursuit. Reid felt sluggish already, but did not hesitate to follow his friend. As they twisted and turned down the cramped, dank, and debris laden alleys, Reid found himself falling farther and farther behind Drake. Finally, Jackson shouldered his way past Reid. Reid paused, his left hand against the alley wall, and watched Jackson race onward. 

Reid’s chest burned. He felt weak, as if he had just run several miles. He took a few deep breaths. Then he forced himself to continue, albeit at a slower pace. When he rounded the next corner he popped out of the alley and was met by a large warehouse. Jackson’s suit jacket fluttered past an open door and he realized the chase had moved inside. Winded, but determined, he entered the warehouse.

The stench of varnish hung in the air. No workers were present, but a row of brand new carriages ran the length of the warehouse. Shelving filled with tools, paints, and varnish lined the walls. Crates and lumber stacked high on either side of the carriages created a labyrinth of passageways. Neither Jackson nor Drake were in sight. Reid stopped to listen for the sounds of the pursuit. Footfalls thundered to his right. He turned that way and called “Drake!”

“Here, Sir!” Drake responded from the same direction as the heavy steps.

Reid took off toward Drake’s voice, snaking between piles of supplies and carriage parts. Carefully he rounded each corner, lest he might come face to face with a desperate Vincent.

“I think we’ve got him between us, Drake!” Jackson yelled from somewhere off to Reid’s left.

“Come at me!” Drake replied. “Pinch him in! Reid, he might flush out your way!”

No sooner had Drake said this than a shadow fell over Reid. He jerked his gaze up. Vincent was crouched on top of a stack of crates, a solid piece of lumber held high over his head like a club. Reid opened his mouth, but never got the chance to speak. Vincent swung the wood down upon Reid. 

Reid dodged to the right. The wood swooshed past his left ear and struck his left shoulder. There was a disturbing crunch. His torso was wrenched to the left by the force of the impact. Pain exploded from the joint as new damage was coupled with old. Reid screamed. “Ahhhh!” He grimaced and crumpled, doubling over to favor his left side. With a pained growl he attempted to raise his right arm in defense, but Vincent was already swinging his club again. Again Reid tried to dodge, but no longer had the maneuverability or speed. The rough wood collided with the left side of his head.

Reid’s head whipped to the right. He grunted. His body felt light and numb, as if it were disconnected from his head. His vision was cloudy. Vague shapes and colors. Sounds were muffled and distant. His legs felt heavy. Reid staggered and fell against a stack of crates. Air was expelled from his lungs as something struck his back, shoving him forward. The floor rushed at him. Then he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on research:
> 
> Why the name Agnes, Ro? Because, when searching for names, it came to my attention 'Agnes' has been a very popular name for ships dating back all the way to the 18th century. Victorians loved the name. See here: https://www.shipindex.org/ships/agnes
> 
> The Agnes is modeled after the S.S. Montana, a real steamship launched on November 16, 1887. The Montana was a cattle carrier built for the Atlantic Transport Line. Feel free to find out more about her here: http://www.atlantictransportline.us/content/05Montana.htm
> 
> Atlantic Transport Line Steamers had earned their reputation for livestock trade by the mid-1880's. You can learn more about Victorian cattle industry here: https://books.google.com/books?id=qq7SCoOwWRcC&pg=PA42&lpg=PA42&dq=livestock+service+ship+1890%27s+london&source=bl&ots=HdPNRnF781&sig=DYomFH3667Tif0LMf0hn_7UUxsU&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjXoqKZnbPZAhUMw4MKHdxADwIQ6AEIRzAC#v=onepage&q=livestock%20service%20ship%201890's%20london&f=false
> 
> Foreign Cattle Market - Before refrigeration, cattle had to be imported alive into London. The Contagious Diseases (Animals) Act of 1869 gave the City of London Corporation exclusive local authority for the importation and processing of foreign animals..as long as it opened a market before January 1872. This was the site in Deptford. By 1889, the Deptford site had been extended to 27 acres (11 ha). In 1907 at its peak, 184,971 cattle and 49,350 sheep were imported through the market. I bet that was really smelly. Learn more here:  
> https://books.google.com/books?id=eU8JAgAAQBAJ&pg=PA32&lpg=PA32&dq=cattle+imports+1880+london&source=bl&ots=Xyv464ooG0&sig=dkIuhBVGrgN1Weldk3eP_3xqK_U&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjniZuWlfrYAhXRuVMKHRlPCkQQ6AEINzAF#v=onepage&q=1880&f=false (Search 1800 and go to page 32.)  
> and here:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convoys_Wharf#Foreign_Cattle_Market
> 
> St. Katharine's Docks - I mention these particular docks because it would have been the closest to our Ripper Street lads on Lehman street, nearly a straight shot south over the rail road tracks and definitely a place they would visit. But the docks were too small for the shipping needs of the late Victorian era. For more on the history of the Port of London pre 1908, go here: http://www.pla.co.uk/Port-Trade/History-of-the-Port-of-London-pre-1908#18  
> London Docks - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Docks  
> London Docklands - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Docklands  
> Royal Victoria Dock - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Victoria_Dock  
> Millwall Dock - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Millwall_Dock  
> West India Docks - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_India_Docks  
> Royal Albert Dock - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Albert_Dock
> 
> Yes, I'm aware "Claxton" is the surname of that despicable character in canon Ripper Street who was responsible for poisoning and killing people through flour distribution. However, I chose the surname because of Captain Christopher Claxton. In December of 1844, Captain Claxton was responsible for saving the SS Great Britain from severe structural damage and guiding her, FINALLY, into the River Avon. He did great and was probably nothing like my jerk OC. You can read more about Claxton and the SS Great Britain here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Great_Britain
> 
> The little girl Hayne's shoes are modeled after these: https://www.rubylane.com/item/592035-237/Antique-Victorian-Little-Girlx27s-Leather-Fancy?search=1 The description reads as: Sweet pair of antique Victorian little girl's fancy leather shoes with ribbons c1900. the shoes have leather soles and heels and bronze silk ribbons. Each shoe measures 6 1/2" in length and 2" in width at the widest point. (edited from original)
> 
> Oh, no! I've lost my notes on the inspiration for the Daphne, the rise and fall of composite hull ships, and the rise steel ships. If you really, really want to know.. contact me and I'll see if I can dig it up.
> 
> Linseed oil - Sorry! I can't give you my notes on this special stuff. I'm afraid if I do I risk ruining a surprise for you all later. I will say it's still being used as a wood treatment to this day. :)
> 
> It's The Deptford Files instead of "The Rockford Files." Get it? :D
> 
> Discovered when I was considering using an oil tanker instead of a cattle ship:  
> Historic England Ships and Boats 1840-1950 Introductions to Heritage Assets https://content.historicengland.org.uk/images-books/publications/iha-ships-boats-1840-1950/heag133-ships-and-boats-1840-1950-iha.pdf/)
> 
> You'll never figure out why I needed this:  
> Limited Anniversary Edition of the Historic Trail Maps of Eastern Colorado and Northeastern New Mexico (http://legacy.lib.utexas.edu/maps/historical/historic_trail_maps_of_eastern_colorado_and_northeastern_new_mexico-boxed_set-pamphlet-2004.pdf)


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